


Prismatic

by notjustmom



Series: Colours [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 16:35:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7648426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom





	Prismatic

From childhood, he knew he was different. He saw things sharply; people, events, emotions, as if through a prism, and he managed to see every angle, nothing was hidden from him. At first he saw it as a curse, no one wanted him to know so much, and the incoming data was overwhelming, until he found a way to deal with it all. He realised if he simply stopped feeling anything at all, the emotions that found their way in had no effect. In effect, he became a machine. He watched those around him suffer from feelings; children were bullied, made and lost friends, teenagers fell in love and their hearts were broken, adults...well, adults accepted him as long as he toed the line, didn't tell them the truth about themselves, the truths they either knew and ignored, or were unaware of; he learned, but it came at a cost. The shards of information were never dulled or softened, they were always in black and white, cold, hard facts he could collate and organise during the day, became the nightmares in neon at night.

The drugs helped. They did, for a while, until the machine needed more, more to keep going in order just to function. One day the machine shuddered to a halt, screeched was more the appropriate term, he mumbled as he adjusted the focus on the microscope. Focus. He needed a way to regain his focus, without the numbness, he had to find a way to make himself more...what was it, human? Perhaps. 

He was working on yet another cold case, Lestrade was not yet ready to bring him back to a working crime scene until he was satisfied that he had 'learned his lesson.' Whatever that means. 

"...a bit different from my day..."

"You have no idea."

Stamford and an old friend. Looked older than he was. Limp, all in his head (probably), military stance, softened by...medicine...no...his specialty was surgery. Slight tremor....no longer could manage the scalpel.

"Mike...can I borrow your phone, there's no signal on mine..." What made him speak then he didn't know, he could have texted the results at any time that afternoon, even the next day, or the following week, it was a seventy-three year old case, no one really cared, it was just paperwork to them.

"Here use mine." The gesture, as small as it was, made him internally shiver, it was rare that anyone acknowledged him without needing something in return, rarer still that he was ever a target of the intense appraisal that this invalided former military surgeon was engaged in at the moment.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" That should stop the investigation. 

The former surgeon blinked away for a moment, perhaps realising his glance was a bit on the almost intrusive side of things.

"Sorry?" 

There. There it was, the questioning eyes touched with a bit of awe mixed with fear, as if he had performed a magic trick. How disappointed he would be once he realised, once he knew...how simple it all was. He expected him to shrug and turn away, see him for the oddity that he was, but instead, he stayed. He stood his ground and blazed away at him like no one ever had, and suddenly Sherlock understood who this was, what this was. 

"The address is 221 B Baker Street; the name is Sherlock Holmes." He winked and gracefully escaped. Once out of view, he pressed his long, calloused fingers to his head in hopes of holding it together; colours flooded the carefully structured, sterile mechanisms, and the hard edges blurred together. He knew at once why ordinary people hoped for love, thrived on it, lived and died for it, because he, at the age of thirty five had fallen in love for the first time.


End file.
